Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  “May I to help you?” The young woman looked up from her papers to hesitantly use her English.

  “I am looking for Halima al Shem, please.”

  The girl looked over her shoulder at a woman who seemed to be in charge.

  “I am Halima. How do you do?” The woman who stood to greet me exuded authority. Her English was very good. In her late thirties, she was either married or past the traditional age of marriage—I guessed the latter. In Yemeni culture, it’s hard to balance the traditional roles of women with the demands of a profession, though a few women do it. And marriage often takes place too early for women, almost as soon as they hit puberty. That part of the culture I abhorred.

  I handed her my card. “Nello told me you would be a great help. I am doing a few stories on Yemen for my newspaper in Washington.”

  “Please, sit down.” Halima’s smile lit up her face, though her eyes looked worried. I liked her right away.

  The women of Friends of Yemen tried not to stare the whole time Halima and I talked. Shy but determined, they might have been picking up tips on how modern women behave with each other.

  “Ma salama,” they said quietly, when I left. “God’s peace be with you. Goodbye.”

  “Ma salama.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Yemen Mocha could be considered the most exotic cup coffee in the world. It has strong character and amazing complexities, smooth and pleasantly pungent. It is heavy bodied and has unique flavors and gives out a lingering aroma.

  brainybean.com

  I walked on to Bab al Yemen, the market gate to the old walled city. Halima’s house was near here, somewhere. Her family was an aristocratic bastion of society in the Old City. Which multi-storied mansion was theirs? They all look much alike.

  The market itself lay deep within a warren of mud brick palaces, all boasting lacy white gypsum designs around stained glass windows. My nose caught the whiff of dried human and animal waste, somewhat sanitized by the dry air and high-altitude sun.

  I took off the face-covering burqa, though I still wore the balto and black headscarf. In spite of the outfit, every person on the street, man or woman, could tell from afar that I wasn’t Yemeni.

  Two women in black flitted gracefully ahead of me, stopping to check out wares at a cloth shop. I caught a glimpse of trim ankles framed by jeans. Looking over my shoulder, dark eyes sparkled between the slits in their burqas and I heard giggles, as the women were embarrassed and eager at the same time. It’s not true that every woman swathed in black is meek, or lacking in mischief.

  Now little shops appeared in some of the walls. This was the tin and copper section of the souq, clustered near the big main mosque.

  Lethargic metallic pounding broke into what had been a quiet walk. I pulled out my camera and was rewarded by shots that could have come from the Middle Ages: tin-, brass- and coppersmiths wearing loose turbans of black and white kaffiyahs, once-white shirts meeting sarong kilts, held together by hand-cured leather belts with sheathes for each man’s most sacred possession, his deadly curved jambiya. Some of the handles were works of art: finely-wrought gold, silver, and jewels resting on a bed of rare, forbidden rhino horn from across the Red Sea in Ethiopia and Somalia. The other end of each little dagger was all business. I thought of the dance from last night.

  By tradition, when a Yemeni man takes out his jambiya, he must use it—one of those macho principles, unfathomable to women—of the tribal warrior society. Of course, since everybody now carried an AK-47 from the age of twelve, the jambiya was more for show than business. Or so I assumed.

  CHAPTER 12

  “The high cliffs called and every notable in Yemen answered;

  We’ll never go republican, not if we are wiped off the earth,

  Not if yesterday returns today and the sun rises in Aden,

  Not if the earth catches fire and the sky rains lead.”

  Yemeni poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”

  Ali al Shem, now known as Abu Salif, grimaced as the SUV bounced over the rocks. He and everyone in the vehicle had their jambiyas at their waists and guns over their shoulders—mostly AK-47s—so jostling was uncomfortable. At the moment, no one was talking. Everyone was missing qat, a natural part of every day at home. A mark of their devotion to the goal was that none of them chewed qat or smoked cigarettes. They must keep their bodies holy, untarnished. Soon, they were told, they would be tested.

  They clutched their precious worn copies of the Koran to their bodies.

  They had traded ordinary life for jihad. It was now their life.

  Like the others, Ali dressed in the qabili or tribesman fashion: sarong-like futha, black and white checked kaffiyeh wrapped around his head, Western-style jacket pulled over a white shirt. His more rural companions had been dismissive of him at first but now treated him like a peer. His tribal ties, although distant, made him a brother. And they were all brothers in Islam.

  The leaders, who went by their “war names,” Abu Shihr and Abu Jowf, were neither rural nor unsophisticated. Ali—or Abu Salif as he must remember he was—knew they watched him closely. Brother he might be; surely they doubted his true commitment.

  Surely they did. He doubted it himself.

  Abu Shihr had called him aside yesterday to confide that he might be called on soon for an important task. He was on probation. He had one chance to be trusted in this group.

  The men around him were tough. Ali liked that. Admired it. He wasn’t yet sure of their purpose, but they were dedicated to it. There could be no question they were religious. Prayers, ritual washing with a few drops of precious water or even small desert rocks, and occasional demands that he, Ali, read from the Koran were part of everyday life. Most of the men couldn’t read.

  In the meantime, they studied guns and explosives and strengthened their bodies.

  Ali tried not to think of Sana’a and home. Halima, his dear sister. Zuheyla, his love. And his father, Sheikh Abdullah.

  From time to time, Ali thought with renewed appreciation of the women who had taken care of him all his life. He had had no idea how they protected him, made his life easier.

  No. Thinking of home could lead to weakness. He shook his head, tasted dust from the road, and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 13

  The five reasons for travel [given to Freya Stark] by Sayid Abdulla, the watchmaker: “to leave one’s troubles behind one; to earn a living; to acquire learning; to practice good manners; and to meet honorable men.”

  Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

  I’d been taking pictures for my article, asking with gestures if it was all right, when a man definitely not a metalworker appeared in the street. He could have beamed in from another century: Brooks Brothers suit, understated tie, shoes with an Italian look that must have cost $400.

  He was indubitably Yemeni. Aquiline features, dark hair and black eyes, recognized and respected by all the craftsmen in the street.

  Yemeni, yes. And super-sophisticated. No one tends to look at a woman taking pictures—unless you’re too obvious about aiming at women. This impressive guy might be different, though. I shot one quick picture of a futha-garbed coppersmith pounding away in the foreground while his modern countryman stopped behind to speak with him. Then I stopped snapping and met the dark eyes of the stranger.

  That was unusual, since I never meet men’s eyes in the Middle East. It gives the wrong message and can lead to undesirable consequences. These eyes were steady, a bit distracted, but not unfriendly.

  “Hello,” said the man, in a good American accent. Did that quizzical quirk of an eyebrow imply criticism of my taking pictures in this remote land?

  My cheeks grew warm.

  Where do we draw the line between reasonable news pictures and invasion of another culture’s privacy? I answered with a cool “Hello,” and kept walking.

  The man passed me and climbed into a black BMW as understated as his tie.

  There’s a good pe
rson to interview. I wonder what he does.

  Then I remembered his ambiguous eyes and was glad I hadn’t committed myself.

  * * * *

  My feet led me deeper into the shady residential canyons of the Old City. From a window of one of the houses, a woman’s face peered out. It was framed by a hand-wrought latticed window standing partly open, and inside that by a light-colored embroidered scarf pulled across her face. Deep, dark, liquid pools of eyes; a hint of black hair peeking from under the scarf. Delicate south Arabian features. Young, maybe sixteen. A worried look instead of the woman-to-woman smile I usually found here in Yemen.

  Though I didn’t recognize the girl, I waved. The mystery woman returned the gesture, rather secretively. Then she turned her head toward the inner rooms of the house and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 14

  O messenger, saddle yourself a horse,

  Bridle it and put on fine spurs.

  Fleet as the wind in some plains,

  He is not bothered by distance or desert.

  Traditional Yemeni poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”

  Ahmad Kutup sat in his family’s main mufraj, smoking a cigarette and drinking strong sweet chai from a glass. He’d made his obligatory foray into the souq, to establish in the neighborhood that he was back as well as to look around.

  In many ways it was good to return to Sana’a. He’d grown up here on and off when his father wasn’t posted somewhere for the Foreign Service. He had fond memories of playing in these alleyways as a child—as safe as playing in a yard, except for motorcycles. All the kids were watched by all the mothers and grandmothers, peeking out from their latticed windows or venturing forth in the burqa. When they got too loud, the shopkeepers, who also knew them, would tell them to pipe down.

  It was an uncomplicated life.

  Now was different. The game he played each time he returned was incrementally more dangerous. Sure, he received all the respect in the world from those in the Old City. His family was distinguished. He had made good as a lawyer in Kuwait. But there was much about Ahmad and his life that no one in Sana’a knew.

  Was it worth it?

  The woman in the souq taking pictures hadn’t quite looked like a tourist. A journalist, he’d guess. Did she have permission from the authorities?

  He glanced at the invitation he’d received from Tom Reilly. The party was two days hence. He was used to being the “token Yemeni” at expatriate parties when he was in town. It was work, in a way; he would keep his eyes and ears open. But Ahmad also liked to mix with foreigners, as he was wont to do in Kuwait. And it wouldn’t be bad to have a little alcohol, too. Just a taste.

  CHAPTER 15

  The men in the front seat began to ask me questions… How long had I [been here]? What was I doing here? How much money did I have in the bank? Did I take pictures and notes on the war?

  Steven C. Caton, Yemen Chronicle

  Michael Petrovich showed up on the sidewalk as I arrived at Nello’s little restaurant near Tahrir Square. He grinned as we almost ran into each other, me in my black outfit. It annoyed me. Did he think I couldn’t resist meeting him?

  “After you,” he said, holding the door.

  Feeling outsmarted in several ways, I entered as graciously as I could. Not getting rid of the burqa before I came was a mistake. Now at least one person from the hotel knew what I might be wearing in the street. More importantly, I would not have time for a heart-to-heart with my old friend, Nello. He might even have some word about Halima, since he’d sent me to her as an informant when I was here before. Why had I mentioned Nello’s restaurant to Michael Petrovich?

  Nello was astounded to see me. Ignoring my companion, he trundled over and hugged and kissed me on both cheeks, reaching up to do so. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth! You are back!”

  “Nello, you know I couldn’t stay away from your spaghetti sauce for long!” Patting his pudgy shoulder and smelling garlic and oil made me feel better than I had all day.

  When he saw my companion, Nello was more subdued, acknowledging the businessman’s presence as he would any client’s. Michael Petrovich put out his hand and Nello reluctantly responded. Petrovich’s teeth gleamed in a wolf-like smile.

  Paranoia again. Fox, maybe? Michael was not a wolf, I was sure.

  We sat at one of the tables covered with its red-and-white-checkered cloth. Nello had stepped out, leaving us to his well-trained waiters.

  “Something important, Elizabeth. I am sorry. So sorry.” He’d given Petrovich a quick nod as he left.

  “I suppose it’s hard being a woman in Yemen.” My companion smiled—condescendingly, I thought.

  The tack was one I warm to, though. “Actually, the freest being of all in Yemen is a foreign woman. We can go anywhere, see anyone, sit with men or women, even sit with them en famille, while they’re together. If you follow a few basic rules, like modest dress and behavior, people will treat you with respect. I love Yemen that way!”

  Michael was amused. “Not quite the reputation the place has!”

  Both of us were served pasta marinara by one of the waiters.

  “No, but it’s a nice little secret, known by only a few women. And all this kidnapping stuff? There is always, always a man as target, possibly accompanied by women. Yemenis would find it beneath their warrior dignity to kidnap or assault women. It doesn’t fit into the honor code.”

  Michael looked thoughtful. “Yeah. Maybe.” He sipped at the Coca Cola bottle that held something stronger than Coke. “Tell me more about what you were doing during the war years. Seems like you might have had a lot of access.”

  It was an odd way to phrase things. Was Michael’s businessman persona a front? Maybe he was in intelligence, as I’d earlier thought? Sana’a was full of spies from all over the world. Was this why he had suggested lunch? I paused. Yes, I had had access. My access to English-speaking Halima had put me ahead of the journalist pack, as most of the Arabic speakers on assignment were men—and thus completely walled off from the lives of half the population.

  But I had to think carefully before speaking. Strangers on a plane have the oddest habit of telling each other things they wouldn’t mention to their nearest and dearest. Since we were in Sana’a, where foreigners are likely to run into each other, I should watch my tongue.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I was new to Yemen and it’s a complicated country, as you must know. We spent a lot of time rounding up the usual suspects to try to get information—government and embassy spokesmen, representatives of international organizations, journalists…”

  Michael watched me closely as I spoke. He might harbor the same suspicions of me that I did of him. On the surface, I would be a logical spy, I suppose, looking quite innocent.

  So would he.

  CHAPTER 16

  “…They must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secrecy and concealment.”

  “HIS sufferings,” replied Emma drily, “Do not seem to have done him much harm.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  After lunch, I excused myself and took a taxi back to the Dar al-Hamd. Jet lag mixed with the too-bright sun made that thin mattress and mildly shaded room quite attractive. My cat friend greeted me eagerly and was pleased to find I’d brought her some chicken from Nello’s. I laid it out on a newspaper for her.

  When I lay down, though, I found myself analyzing Halima’s voice from this morning. The call disturbed me in a way the earlier vague messages had not. Halima’s voice, yes—but so unlike her. Lacking the fresh, bright confidence I so enjoyed in my friend. Full of fear. Still, I could do nothing until Halima contacted me. By interfering, I could only make things worse.

  When I awoke, the cat had disappeared and the sun lay lower to the mountain peaks. I yawned, stretched, and ordered tea.

  Sipping the comforting beverage with Emma on my lap, socked feet resting on the low window sill, I scanned the scene below, intending to read.

  Hellloooo. The s
ame khaki-and-open-shirt clad British specimen I’d seen on the plane and at breakfast was striding through the overgrown back garden. I pulled my feet in, edged back from the window, and watched.

  Mr. Khaki Pants walked briskly toward a little gate in the high mud brick wall. He stooped and went through, glancing back briefly. I was reminded of a tom cat patrolling its known territory. Strange. Why not go out the front of the hotel? Had I pulled back far enough to be out of sight?

  Yemen isn’t a soft country. Certainly, nothing looked soft from the hotel window. Broken glass along the top of the mud walls provided a stark message to intruders. Mountain contours lay uncompromising on all sides of the city. The little patch of dry sorghum in the foreground added interest but not alleviation.

  The sun began its quick equatorial descent. Harshness dissipated into delicate pink and gold, infusing the surrounding mountains and reflecting against the mud walls. I gulped crisp high-desert air, savoring its faint dust-manure-wood smoke smell. The cat appeared and sat on the window sill beside me, accepting me into her sphere of influence.

  Snuggling a sweater around my shoulders while petting the cat, I dove back into Emma’s adventures, trying to distract myself from the nagging problem of Halima.

  It didn’t work. I leaned my head back, covered my eyes, and remembered 1994.

  It had been hard to sleep. We journalists were all on edge. Consumption of cigarettes and alcohol skyrocketed. It was strange, because the war had nothing to do with us. Bo took to slipping into my room, where we would cling together, more in fear than passion.

  Well, sometimes more in fear.

  I pulled myself from the reverie and turned again to the book.

  Glancing up, I caught movement. Two loosely-turbaned men in skirt-like futhas skulked in evening shadows across the sorghum field toward the garden wall. The tall one had a distinctive scar across his cheek. I had seen him before, talking to the taxi driver this morning. His friend was short and dumpy.